Constellations
by Chevira Lowe
Summary: Rather vague FujiRyo. Takes place during the training camp arc. A little light-hearted, a little contemplative and more than a little weird.


Constellations

A/N: First Tenipuri fic, and you can bet that I'm amused that I didn't even get to write it for my OTP. Ah, well. Throw the cat another canary. Yo, Sapph. This one's for you, babes. Gimme a holler if the characterizations are too outta whack, mm?

--To the general public. Mindless praise-reviews are bad, bad things. Don't review if you can't think of anything to criticize, please.

Syuusuke Fuji wasn't always smiling, though he tried to be. Sometimes the gesture was genuine—but with rising frequency it was a contrived happenstance. He liked to think that people couldn't tell the difference, but that didn't give enough credit to those that he knew. Even the ever-oblivious Eiji knew when he was smiling and when he was playing puppet-master, pulling on the not-so-fragile strings of his emotions.

Fuji liked to believe he was stronger than he looked. Many people had sought to protect him, for the sake of his refined appearance, only to later find that he'd merely been humoring them and their oft-heartfelt care. He'd lost friends that way, when he was younger. He considered these people to be shooting stars—they gleamed brilliantly in the instant he cupped them in his hands, and they turned to dust as they streamed through his fingers.

It didn't make him sad, nor even remorseful. As his sister said often enough, everything that happened did so for a reason. He wasn't one to mock fate, nor tempt it. That was a job that he would gladly leave to others.

He did not envy them their freedom. He was bound by parameters that he didn't particularly care for, but he knew well why they existed. There were some that didn't know when to stop struggling—like a wild animal caught in a cruel trap. Of course, he'd never gone down without a fight either, but then again, how often had his fall from grace been completely all-encompassing? He didn't look for trouble—he didn't have to. It found him with frightening regularity. But it wasn't his time to fight for everything that he held dear. If it was somewhere on his horizon, he would face it then.

Everything one grew to count on would crumble. Even things you'd once considered immovable—they too would change, malleable as water. Replacements came later, after the grieving was over and you broke the surface of the lake of your childishly founded fears.

All he had to do was tread water.

"Tezuka thinks you're a star." His voice was hushed, as though he was speaking before an assembly of billions yet not wanting to be heard save by one. That one was sitting up, one leg drawn to his chest, a forearm resting atop his knee. They were in their pajamas, understandable—as they'd been in bed a scant five minutes before. Pulled from that haven via mutual sleeplessness, they were together now on a hillside overlooking the tennis courts.

"Eh? ...Not here. In America, maybe."

He smiled at the misunderstanding. "No, Ryoma. Not that kind of star. That kind." He pointed upwards, at the cascade of diamonds against the backdrop of the obsidian sky.

"That's a new one."

"A star." He continued softly. "The sort that people gravitate towards, like planets. Saa?" He settled back on the grassy hillside, folding his arms contentedly behind his head. He'd always enjoyed stargazing—he could remember when he was a child, feeling mischievously elated as he would drag a sleepy Yuuta out his window and onto the roof, blankets and teddy bears in tow, to observe the stars. They'd even gone so far as to make up their own constellations. The shoe was still there, as was the pony and even the tennis racket. He remembered that that one had been Yuuta's.

"You're a waxing poetic at three-thirty in the morning." Ryoma had thought to bring his habitual baseball cap along, for reasons the other could only guess, and now he pulled it down over his eyes, stretching out on the dewy grass. "Fuji-senpai." He added as a careful afterthought.

"I wonder how brightly you'll shine?" The older boy continued dreamily, as though he hadn't heard. "And when you'll disappear. Though I wouldn't like that. It's cold without the sun."

"Mada mada." The boy yawned, removed his cap and ruffled at his hair. "Not yet."

"If you're tired, we should go back." He glanced towards the run-down cottage that had been their home for the last few days and made as if to stand.

"Mm." He murmured noncommittally. He reached out, then, and caught the other boy's arm to forestall his leaving. "I like listening to you, you know, Fuji-senpai. You make sense. In a way that doesn't really make sense."

That elicited a low chortle from the tennis prodigy, and he tilted his head quizzically to one side as he allowed himself to be pulled back into a sitting position. "That makes sense."

"Tch." Ryoma released his arm. "I'll beat you next time." He waved a hand lazily in the direction of the courts, and then settled them across his stomach.

"I look forward to it." Honestly, he didn't think him…quite. Ready. Not yet. Fuji knew that Ryoma—as Tezuka's Chosen, would surpass him one day, but that day was not today, nor tomorrow. It was coming, though, and soon. He hoped that when it happened that he would give a good account of himself. It was strange to know, in the end, he was just one more stone in that yellow brick road.

"Hm." As though he'd been expecting some sort of comment to the contrary—perhaps a playful denial, Ryoma settled back down onto the grass. "You were talking about stars before." The words were an invitation, Fuji knew, though he thought it strange of the boy to be so openly susceptible to his babble.

"Aah…was I?"

There was a pause, and then a sigh. "Just like you, Fuji-senpai."

"Saa. I'm sorry." He smiled up at the stars. "Ryoma…aah. I have a story to tell. Would you…?"

"Listen? Sure." He gave a nod, stifled yet another yawn and returned the baseball cap to its former position over his eyes.

A fond smile lit his face, reminding him of the days long past, days when he'd been an avid teller of fables and the like. He cleared his throat vaguely and tested the seemingly ancient words on his tongue, deciding he still liked their taste even after so long. "A long time ago, there was a prince, and he had a talent and a passion for all manner of princely things. It happened one day, though, that a rival came to town, boasting of his skills and how they exceeded that of the prince. The prince wasn't worried, though, and he allowed this newcomer to challenge him to a competition…"

Individual words were themselves like falling stars—catching in the chilled morning air and twirling prettily like a streamer caught in the wind. Fuji wasn't sure if Ryoma was actually listening to him, but that in itself wasn't incentive enough to call for a pause and a tentative inquiry as to whether or not the boy was still awake. He was caught up in his story, his legend, and he told it with due earnestness. It was as beautiful as a tapestry and every bit as complex, with as much variation and color as he could manage.

Somewhere along the line, he realized that he'd drawn it to its inevitable close. Time does so fly when one is enjoying it. He stopped at last on an eloquent 'The End', wondering if a response from the other boy would be forthcoming.

A long silence followed, and he tilted his head, supposing that Ryoma had been more tired than he'd let on. Though he'd made the story as enthralling as he was able, it apparently hadn't been enough to keep his companion engaged. The sun was rising to the east, and he took this as his cue to pick up the smaller boy with the intention of returning to the cottage, first setting the wayward baseball cap upon his own head to prevent his forgetting it out here. He held him close—both for warmth and to keep his balance, and picked a careful path down the hill.

There was another sleepy yawn, and he blinked down at Ryoma and his sudden state of wakefulness. "So…" he didn't seem as troubled as Fuji would have thought at being carried. "Who was the prince?"

Not an entirely unexpected question. The answer came to him now, as natural as was daybreak to the earth, and he smiled. "It used to be Tezuka." He was, in fact, the first person Fuji had ever recited it for.

"And now?"

"Now it's you. Saa…"

There was a thoughtful 'Hm' as he digested this information—and then. "Fuji-senpai…you're wearing my hat."

The smile that followed was genuine, as much as it had ever been. "You noticed, mm?"

If Fuji didn't know any better, he would have sworn that Ryoma…snuggled nearer, right then. "It looks good on you."


End file.
